Victorian Psycho

I fail to understand why men think violence will intimidate women. Women, who bleed all over themselves every month, who rub blood clots between their fingers and burst them like insects, and sometimes can't because they're not blood clots, they're tongue-coloured strings of meat from the womb. Women who burst open in childbirth, vagina splitting and anus sagging, tiny, hardening fingernails clawing inside of them, placentas like thick filet mignon.

When faced with the inexplicable, humans will find ways of explaining most horrors away.

Inside me, my Darkness rests within my rib-cage, a jailed animal grown lazy from lack of exercise. I have not felt my soul for a very long time. It may have slipped out, unbeknownst to me. I've seen other lose their shame of dignity in this way.

At eight thirty sharp breakfast is removed, as is my will to live.

It fascinates me, the fact that human have the capacity to mortally wound one another at will, but for the most part, choose not to.

It is early fall, the cold is beginning to descend, and in three months everyone in this house will be dead.

Satisfied that there are no monsters but the ones I carry inside me.

The shade is "Mummy Brown." If mummified Egyptians had known they were fated to be pulverized to produce an umber for such a mediocre painter, they surely would have chosen other burial options.

She is now of an age when she risks her fertility from the ravages of overeducation. Says so in the Times.

Within the locker is a chalk-and-crayon likeness of the lecherous painter, most likely of his own creation, for it is substandard.

Her left eye wanders, and I wish I were possessed of a compass to determine to which cardinal direction the eye points most often.

The window is so clean I think it is open when I attempt to throw one of the children out of it. The toddler slams against the glass and falls to the floor with a thud.

Observing my clean, respectable image in the glass I open my mouth wide in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the Darkness within me, to spy it peeking out of me, slick and muscular and toothed, like a lamprey swallowed whole.

I think, They won't like me. I think, They must like me. I think, They will remember me.

Leaves are strewn across the grounds in hues of bile and blood.

You are rather fat,' the little master says as I dress him for our walk the following morning. 'Because I eat rather fat children,' I reply.

Not one of them tries to stop us. If three or four of them had the sense to join up, they could easily overpower us both. If most of them hadn't been bred in captivity, force-fed a lifetime of politeness, kneading their spirits into compliance as callused fingers shape clay, they might have realized that.

I teach them nursery rhymes. Little Bobbie Binkins / Was boiled in a kettle / Served as tea to unsuspecting dames at the Brown’s Hotel.

Mr Pounds squints at me through the distance. ‘Your skull looks to be promising, Miss Notty. The forehead is broad, surely housing prominent organs of Benevolence.’ I nod solemnly. ‘Untold benevolences, indeed.

I wonder if this blackness isn't in fact the real world, and the true blindfold is that other world of color we are accustomed to.

Drusilla’s education shall be less rigorous, of course,’ says Mr Pounds. ‘She is now of an age when she risks her fertility from the ravages of overeducation. Says so in the Times.’ I interpret this to mean Drusilla will be doing much ornamental needlework.

(The women are not allowed to partake in such rigorous activity – the exertion might cause their wombs to drop out.)

To this day I can’t help wondering what it is like

Czło­wie­cze miny są jak skóry, które zdej­mu­ję, odkąd pa­mię­tam, zwi­jam w kulkę i wchła­niam z myślą o póź­niej­szym wy­ko­rzy­sta­niu.

Nothing a good rest devoid of intellectual strain can’t cure,’ Mr Pounds says brightly. ‘Agree wholeheartedly,’ Mr Fishal says. ‘Mrs Fishal said writing energised her

one single freckle at the corner of her mouth which many men shall one day tediously find attractive.